


the naming of things

by LadyMerlin



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Extended Families, Families of Choice, Fluff, Gen, ManDadlorian, Mandalorian Culture, One Shot, Parent-Child Relationship, it takes a village, post S1E8, single parent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:40:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22274212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMerlin/pseuds/LadyMerlin
Summary: “You must rest as well, and take treatment if you are injured. Stories can wait until the evening gathering. What does the child eat?”Under his helmet, Din grimaces. “Got any live frogs?”There is a pause, and then the first Mandalorian shakes their head, dragon-signet glinting in the low light. “We do not, but I have no doubt some of the young ones will have no objections to catching some. Are there any, uh, restrictions?”Din grimaces again. “I haven’t noticed a preference for any particular species, as long as it’s live.”“Well,” Dragon-signet replies after another awkward moment, “we must all love our children as they are.”“It is the way,” Din says, echoed by several others, knowing it will be the end of the discussion.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)
Comments: 116
Kudos: 1618
Collections: Excellent Completed Gen & Platonic Fiction, Jedi Journals, Noromo Mando: Mandalorian Genfics Collection





	the naming of things

**Author's Note:**

> Here I am, 27 years old, never read a Star Wars fic in my LIFE (Anakin whomst?), and suddenly I’m in love with Mandalorian culture and the idea of A PEOPLE UNITED BY CREED AND THE GALLANTRY OF IT ALL AND **BABY YODA** *clenches fist*
> 
> So I wrote this on my phone in a couple of hours the day after I finished watching the series, like a crazy person. Not beta read; I blame any potentially humorous typos on autocorrect. The writing is a little unusual because of the pronoun thing, but I tried. hmu if you have suggestions. 
> 
> Caveat: I know NOTHING about Star Wars (always been more into Trek). What I’ve got is from the Star Wars Wiki or I’ve just plumb made it up. Like I always say, I love Canon. I love waving at it as it passes by.

Din knows when the Armourer speaks that his people are not dead. There has never been a Tribe in all of Mandalore’s history where an Armourer outlived their people. It is not their way. Their leaders go into death, as in all things, first. 

But she does not tell him where they have gone, and he understands it is because of the outsiders who are with him. It is why he tries to stay behind, though she turns him down. It is not a problem. The Armourer has as good as given her blessing to take the child - the foundling to the new covert, wherever they may be. 

He thinks, even if she had outlived the Tribe, she would have left by now. Beskar is their legacy, but a legacy is worthless without its people. They have no ties to Nevarro, and she would not have stayed behind to salvage ore when there are no Mandalorians left to wear it, and no foundlings to raise. It is at times like this when he is grateful that outsiders know so little of their ways. He does not do her the disrespect of offering his assistance; if she had wanted it, she would have asked. 

They - Din and the child - leave the planet and it is only when they are in hyperspace, it occurs to him that they should have checked if Moff Gideon had died in the crash. It is good practice to ensure that an enemy who has gone down,  _ stays _ down. A man who has cheated death once can do it again, but it’s too late to turn back. He must assume that Gideon, or else another Imperial  _ demagolka _ will be sending troopers after them. He needs to find the covert. The bacta-spray has worked well, but he is still injured, and like this, they are vulnerable. 

His mind races through possibilities and scenarios and potential outcomes as quickly as the stars skipping past the transperishield, and he feels himself getting tenser and tenser until something touches his hand and he startles. He tamps down hard on his urge to snatch his arm away and looks down to find the foundling standing beside his chair, touching the hand resting on the gear-stick. It’s more likely to be interested in the small silver knob at the end of the stick than it is in him, and Din forces himself to relax. The foundling coos. 

He is unaccustomed to having anyone else in his cockpit, though recently it has felt like nothing more than an overcrowded city transport, with far too many strangers traipsing in and out at all hours. But somehow the foundling itself does not feel like an intruder. The child chirps at him, an entirely different sound than before, and he wonders that he’s starting to recognize the differences. 

“You hungry?” he asks, ignoring a twinge in his side and bending down to pick it up. It’s as light as a - as a large-ish Jogan fruit, perhaps, and Din wonders if it’s bones are hollow like a bird. The foundling needs a name, but such matters had always been the business of the Ruling Council. Din has no knowledge of these things, no experience in raising young ones, least of all those who can lift things with their minds and heal bodies with nothing more than a touch. He pokes at the foundling’s stomach with his index finger gently, and it giggles. “Do you want food? I don’t have anything disgusting but I can spare you a ration bar, if you’d like.” 

Din would spare more than a ration bar, but he thinks the foundling knows that as well as he does, so it doesn’t need to be said. He’s not lying though, about not having anything disgusting on his ship. He’ll get some if he has to, even though he still has his doubts about the healthfulness of small children eating frogs and toads and slugs. 

Then again. The foundling is technically older than him. It probably knows what is best for its own species to eat. Din is going to have to learn how to catch live frogs, it seems. 

But first, the covert. 

-

In the end it is easier than he had expected, which is extremely concerning. If Din could find the covert so easily, it means they can be found. The safety of a Tribe comes not from the strength of its fighters, but their ability to stay hidden from those who would harm them. At least, until they had no choice but to fight. Mandalorians have historically done better when they have their backs up against the wall. 

As he carries the foundling into a dark alley and then down into the sewers through a small grated door, it occurs to him that they have been waiting for him, or the Armourer, or any other stragglers who had been left behind. It makes more sense, for the Tribe does not leave people behind. It is the way. 

Nonetheless, he keeps precise records of how he found them, so that the security teams can take care of any accidental oversights. 

He twists the sling so that the child is pressed against his back before he knocks on a door marked with the sign of the Manda’lor. The door slides open immediately and he finds himself facing the business end of an Amban rifle. His hands go up, and the gun slants down, away from his armoured face and towards his unprotected waist. 

“Identify yourself, Mandalorian.” 

It’s a trick question. Amongst their own kind, they do not use their names. Even if he had given it, there is no guarantee that this particular Mandalorian would have known it. Instead he says, “there is a foundling in a satchel hanging behind my back. It is wearing my Krybes.” Admittedly he should have taken it off, just for a while, so he could prove his identity, but the thought of taking it from the foundling seems somehow revolting. 

“A foundling in a satchel? That’s one I haven’t heard before,” the rifle-holding-Mandalorian says lightly, disguising his tension while gesturing at another one standing behind him to check. It is expected, but he can’t promise he’ll react well to someone touches the foundling, even if they are one of the Tribe. He trusts them, but things are still too raw. 

The second one goes around his back and lifts his cloak to reveal the Foundling, staring back at them with its huge brown eyes. It’s tiny claws are wrapped around the pendent which identifies Din as a Mandalorian, even more reliably than the armour does. Armour can be stolen off a body. The pendent is tied to him. If he dies, it will crumble into dust. It is how they identify each other in this lawless world. 

Both Mandalorians immediately relax once they have seen the pendent, and the door slides shut behind Din. “Where do you come from, sibling?” 

“Nevarro,” he replies. “The Armourer was still there three days ago, when I left.” 

“Three days?” one of the Mandalorians asks, his tone skeptical. “Three days ago we heard that a mismatched group of bandits wiped out the entire Imperial presence on that planet.” 

Din sighs. News travels fast, apparently. “Yes, some companions and I. The foundling has a bounty on its head. It’s a long story but it’s being tracked by the Imps, and they keep hiring hunters to come after it. We returned to the planet hoping to eliminate the source of the bounty, but it seems like the order comes from way up high.” The Mandalorians exchange glances. 

“And you are its parent?” 

Din nods, because that much is clear, even though he’s not sure how he feels about it. “We won’t be here long, but I just need some time to recover. We don’t want to lead any more hunters to the Tribe.” 

One of the two scoffs, and it’s echoed by a few others who have gathered around while they were talking. “As if a few pathetic hunters could threaten the safety of a foundling, or the Tribe.” 

Din shrugs. “They have been threatening it for months now.” The foundling coos behind his back, and he slides the sling bag around his shoulder and to the front. It smiles up at him and opens its mouth like a baby bird. “Before I tell you more, is there any chance I can get the foundling some food? It’s been a while and the child is not fond of ration bars.” 

“Of course,” one says, standing up straight. “You must rest as well, and take treatment if you are injured. Stories can wait until the evening gathering. What does the child eat?” 

Under his helmet, Din grimaces. “Got any live frogs?” 

There is a pause, and then the first Mandalorian shakes their head, dragon-signet glinting in the low light. “We do not, but I have no doubt some of the young ones will have no objections to catching some. Are there any, uh, restrictions?” 

Din grimaces again. “I haven’t noticed a preference for any particular species, as long as it’s live.” 

“Well,” Dragon-signet replies after another awkward moment, “we must all love our children as they are.” 

“It is the way,” Din says, echoed by several others, knowing it will be the end of the discussion. 

“Come, I will show you an empty room. We are only here temporarily, so we have not set up all the comforts of home, but it will suffice. Do you require a cot for the child?” 

Din shakes his head. The little monster has been sleeping with him. 

-

The room is comfortable enough. Luxurious by his standards.

There’s a bed in it, and a refresher, and a small basin that can be filled with water and heated on the fire. Din is careful to heat the water only lightly before stripping the child’s clothes and putting it into the basin. 

It’s beginning to smell a little gross, so he washes it once with soap and then a second time, after draining the basin, with plain water. The first time he’d tried this, he’d been scared that it might be allergic to water, or perhaps afraid, but Omera has assured him that if it didn’t like what he was doing, it’d make its opinion well known. 

He takes the opportunity to check the child over. It doesn’t seem any worse for wear from their adventure and the rough handling, splashing and making a mess of the wooden stand the basin is sitting on. But he supposes children are designed to make messes, so he doesn’t worry too much. 

He uses the refresher himself, not yet comfortable enough to apply water to any open wounds. The little brown sack cloth the child is wearing is dirty too, so he washes it while the child sits on the bed, amusing itself by crawling under his bedsheets. He will have to obtain clothes for the child, so that it doesn’t have to wear the same dirty thing all the time. Perhaps something which allows more movement; it has tripped on its own hems more times than Din likes to think of, in his presence. The first time he’d panicked, picking it up quickly and checking for injuries desperately. The child had giggled at the sight of Din patting it down, and then he’d relaxed a little. 

Or at least he’d tried to. It had fallen over a few more times before Din’s heart stopped flying into his mouth with every stumble. Now, he only worries after it uses its powers, hovering close by with his arms outstretched to catch its little body if it falls. 

He dries the cloth as quickly as he can, setting it over the fire and keeping an eye on it while he dresses and pulls himself together. The cloth, as small as it is, dries quickly, and once the child is clothed, it is time to face the Tribe. 

-

Din follows his nose to the mess hall, a familiar riot of spicy scents and fragrances so strong he can practically taste them on his tongue. In his arms, the child sneezes and looks betrayed. It’s so cute that Din almost can’t help the smile blooming under his helmet. “Don’t like that huh?” He asks lowly, directing the question at the child. 

He has no way of knowing whether the child understands his speech or not, but if there’s one thing he knows, it’s that children shouldn’t be ignored, as if they don’t exist. Their life is a solitary one, but Din will not let this child be lonely if he can help it. “We’ll see if they’ve found you something slimy to eat. Even if they haven’t, I won’t make you eat anything too spicy, I promise.” 

The child giggles at the faux-serious tone, and Din feels himself relaxing. If it’s laughing, it can’t be too badly hurt or traumatised, right? He hopes he hasn’t fouled this up before it even began, though he doesn’t like his chances. 

The tables are communal, familiar, even though the setting is totally new. The covert is not home because of where it is, but because of who it is. Several others raise their hands in greeting, and after Din raises his own in return a few times, he notices the foundling copying him, waving its three-clawed paws in the air, startlingly reminiscent of when it’s using its powers. He resists the urge to cover its hand, to prevent any accidents, even if he’s not sure that would work. 

He sits down at an empty table, knowing he will soon be joined by curious people, and they-who-lead. It’s not a formal role but a social one, and one that appears naturally in every tribe. Din recognises them as easily as they recognise him, though he supposes the foundling is a dead give-away. 

“Welcome, Mandalorian.” 

“Thank you,” he replies, accepting a wooden cup with a straw sticking out of the lid. It’s the right size and length to fit under the helmet, and Din is grateful for it in the sweltering heat. He’s barely taken a sip before the child clenches a single fist in his shirt to get his attention, and reaches up at the cup with his other hand. He huffs and lowers the cup, taking off the lid so that the child can drink without struggling with the straw. It’s some sort of tart fruit juice, not fermented, and it shouldn’t cause any problems, though he admits he’s not sure of anything these days. The child sips at it and then makes a face, like it’s just tasted a lemon. Shoulders around the circle relax, and Din wonders if the foundling even realises how lucky it is to be this cute. 

“You have already accepted it as your child?” they-who-lead asks, tone neutral. 

“I have not said the words,” Din admits, “but I would not turn my back on this foundling.” 

“Deeds are better than words, but sometimes you must say a thing for it to become true.” It’s not a criticism, more an observation, but Din ducks his head anyway. He knows this is true. 

“It is foolish, but I wanted to wait until it understood what I was saying.” 

A gentle hand lands on his shoulder, and they-who-lead tilts their head in a vaguely sympathetic way. Their people are not known to be warm, but they are not cruel either. “The words are not a vow to the child, Mando’ad. They are a vow to yourself. You are a clan of two, now.” 

The words are almost exactly what the Armourer had said to him on Nevarro, and they are true, so he lifts the child and seats it on the table in front of him. It is good there are witnesses for this, because they will be the child’s kin as well. “Foundling,” he says, trying not to let his voice crack and waver, “I know your name as my child.” There are a million conditions, and he knows he must find the child’s people, but even if the child leaves him, even if it decides to not take up the creed, it will always be Din’s child, until every single star in the sky burns out. 

The child coos and reaches out for his helmet, and Din cannot help but lean in and press their faces together, gently because he knows skin is far softer than beskar, and he would die before he hurts his child. 

“This is the way,” they chant around him, more-or-less in unison. 

“This is the way,” he echoes. He lifts the child up and brings it to his lap again, face turned into his stomach and a hand on the back of its head. The child tilts its head back to look up at him and opens its mouth again, a sharp reminder. “Right,” he says, “food.” That’ll take his mind off things. 

“Yes,” they-who-leads says, standing up. “Some of the children have caught a rather large number of frogs, and are currently attempting to hold them in custody in the kitchens. Perhaps the foundling would like to take a look?” 

The child turns to them and coos again, reaching out a hand. Din gently passes the child to the leader who receives the child just as gently, resting it on their hip. “Ah!” it says, opening it’s little pink mouth wide. “ _ Ah! _ ”

“Indeed, little one. We have kept you hungry long enough. I’m sure the children are curious to meet their new cousin.” 

Well, at least it’ll be interesting. 

-

“I heard your foundling eats live frogs,” comes a familiar voice. With the ease of long practice, Din ducks his head just far enough that Paz’ hand misses the back of his head, and turns around to jab him in the stomach instead. Paz sidesteps neatly and then swings a leg over the bench to sit down at the same table as Din. 

“You just missed the show,” Din replies as evenly as he can. He knows Paz isn’t actually insulting his child. He  _ knows _ this, because Paz knows that Din would have his balls if he even tried. 

“Shame. Maybe next time I can help,” Paz says, his own voice carefully modulated. Din sees the peace offering for what it is, and thinks he can find it in himself to accept it. Now he has more than just himself to think about. They’ve come a long way from when they were children, who fought every time they were left alone for more than three minutes. Din doesn’t like Paz, but he trusts him, and he would trust his child with him, if ever there comes a time when Din cannot take care of him. 

Before he left Nevarro, Greef Karga had made a comment about how maybe it was a good thing that the covert had been disbanded, because surely the Tribe would not have thanked him for bringing trouble to their doorstep. Din had barely managed to restrain himself from punching the man. Feeling glad for the death of a Tribesman is anathema. If Din ever felt joy at the death of a fellow Mandalorian, it would be a clear sign that he had become a coward, unworthy of his signet or his armour. 

What the outsiders fail to understand, is that accidentally bringing trouble to their doorstep is not betrayal, it is just bad luck. A hunt which is lost is just a lost hunt, and not an omen. They are not a superstitious people, and it is not in their culture to assign blame. Greef Karga had hoped to turn Din against his own people, but the truth is that there are no Mandalorian traitors; there are only Mandalorians, and there are traitors. A betrayal of the clan is as good as a betrayal of one’s self; one who goes against the interests of the Tribe could not be a part of the Tribe, past, present or future. Din has never seen it happen, but he has heard stories of traitors during the wartime, whose names were struck entirely from their lore. 

“Sure,” Din replies, because he’ll be damned if Paz comes out of this looking like the bigger man. 

“What’s the foundling’s name?” Paz asks. 

Din winces. “Doesn’t have one, yet. I was waiting for the Council to convene.” 

“Ugh,” Paz snorts, “it’s going to end up with the name of an old one. You’d better name it yourself. Is it a girl or a boy?” 

Din shrugs. “Indeterminate. I see no features that I can recognise.” 

Paz snorts, but doesn’t say anything. This is not an uncommon problem. The Mandalorians are not known for encyclopedic knowledge. They know what they know and what they do not know does not bother them overmuch, unless it is trying to kill them, or it is interfering with a job. They are rarely interested in what goes on beneath a Mandalorian’s armour, because it is their creed that unites them rather than any physical similarities. Unfortunately this means that despite their habit of adopting the lost and abandoned, most of the time they know nothing about the children they are raising, except this: in all the universe there is no constant save that a child must be loved. It is why they never approved of the Jedi.

“It looks like a Jak. I’ve always liked that name,” Paz says after a long moment of slurping obnoxiously at his drink. 

Din studies the child with its big brown eyes and its downy soft ears, and shakes his head. The child shakes its head too, thinking it is a game. Din nods at it, and the child nods back, giggling. He bends down and presses his helmet against the child’s forehead again, and the child closes its eyes, pressing back. “Sleep, little one.” 

When he sits back up, Paz is watching him. “Blessings upon your clan,” he says quietly, just low enough that Din almost misses it. He knows Paz does not wish him harm, but to hear his well-wishes is unexpected, to say the least. 

It startles him, but he recovers enough to offer the traditional reply, “and upon yours, sibling.” And then: “Will you watch my child with your children while I attend the Council tonight?” 

Paz tenses briefly, and then relaxes. “I am honoured, sibling.” 

“I will return with its name,” Din says, handing the sleeping, swaddled child over to Paz. 

“I will protect it like it is my own.” 

And somehow, Din had known that. He nods and goes to pick up his rifle. He had not been lying when he’d said that his weapons were the closest thing the Mandalorians have to a religion. Facing the Council without his rifle would have felt like being naked. 

“Mudhorn,” they-who-leads greets when he walks in. “Do not fear us.” 

Din resists the urge to deny that he’s afraid; his grip on his rifle has given him away. He doesn’t truly expect this to go poorly, doesn’t think this will end with him shooting his way out, but no amount of logic can calm the thundering of his heart. It is not so easy. 

“Perhaps you can tell us how you came to have the foundling. Do not fear, Mudhorn,” they repeat. “We are not here to lay blame, only to understand. No Mandalorian in this Tribe would have done anything other than saving the foundling. It is the way.”

“It is the way,” he echoes, taking solace in the familiar words, hearing them repeated all around him. 

“I don’t know where to start,” he admits. He has done some things he is not proud of, but that’s not the difficulty. He genuinely does not know where to start. 

“Tell us when you first heard about the child.” 

“Greef Karga told me there was a bounty on offer, better than all the two-bit pucks he had, but I had to meet the client in person.” And so he tells them the whole sorry tale, or as much of it as he can remember, in as logical a manner as he can manage. They ask a few questions, but for the most part they let him speak without interruption, and he appreciates it. 

They do not even pause to confer when he is done. Instead they-who-lead stands up and puts a hand on his shoulder. “This was well done, Mudhorn.” 

The praise is not effusive, but it’s enough to melt the tension in his shoulders, rare enough that he can feel tremors running down his spine. “Thank you,” he manages to say, without letting his voice crack. 

“We will support you in this, of course. Allowing the Imps to use a child as a weapon is unconscionable, and we will not allow it, not as long as there is breath in our lungs. This is the way,” they say. 

“This is the way,” he repeats, feeling slightly numb. 

“Do you have any other points you wish to discuss?” they ask, “or shall we release you for your evening meal with the foundling?” 

“Yes,” he says, and then stutters. “The child does not have a name, and--” He stalls. How is he supposed to explain that he can’t even name his child? 

“You wish the Council to assist?” they ask. “Very well. The child shall be called Veshok.” 

Din laughs before he can stop himself, but he’s not the only one. It’s a little on the nose, but still apt. Given names are only temporary for their people, anyway. A name given for free is nowhere as important as a name earned. Still, it is convenient when parents call for their children, to warn of danger or to catch their attention. “Thank you, Council,” he says, instead of commenting further. At least the name is neither overtly male or female, which is helpful since he doesn’t know the sex of the child, or if it even has a sex. 

“You are welcome, Mudhorn, and your child as well.” 

-

“ _ Green _ ? You named your child  _ green _ ?” 

Din shrugs. “The Council bestowed a name. It’s not like I had any better ideas,” he says, taking the child back from Paz, taking care not to wake it. 

“You’ll just have to teach the little one to throw a strong punch, just in case. Nothing less than I’d expect from a Djarin.” 

It’s nothing he doesn’t know, but hearing the words from another Mandalorian’s mouth still hits him hard. He exhales sharply, and then glances down at the child to ensure he hadn’t woken it. 

The child - Veshok stirs, and Din thinks the name - though apt - is more of a mouthful than he’d expected. “Vesh?” He ventures, a possible nickname. “Esh? Ves? That’s alright, isn’t it?” 

The child blinks awake and smiles at him. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard the child cry, and it’s both concerning and not. After all, Ves is fifty years old, and he doesn’t know how many years the foundling has spent alone, without anyone to soothe it. 

He just wishes there was a way to let the child know that it could cry, if it wanted to. That Din will do everything he could to end whatever causes his child distress. 

He knows that behind him, Paz has left the room, so he gets up and locks the door before he settles down onto the bed, with Ves on his lap. 

“You’re my clan now,” he says softly, “so I can do this.” He slips the helmet off, half worried that Ves won’t recognise him without it, half filled with a nameless dread that maybe this isn’t allowed, and maybe he is breaking his faith and he will never be allowed to put the helmet on again or call himself a Mandalorian.

But he was a foundling once, and his parents had shared their faces with him. They’d always said the exception is made because families are considered to be one. There is no shame in being unmasked before a mirror. 

So he takes his helmet off and Ves is quiet for a moment, before smiling up at him again, and reaching a tiny hand out. Din dips his head so Ves can touch his face, and then even further so he can bump their noses together, the way his birth mother used to when he was a child. 

Ves’ hands come to rest on both his cheeks and he closes his eyes, finally at ease. There is a long road ahead, but he is not afraid. 

**Author's Note:**

> The internet tells me Veshok means green in Mando’a. Yes, they-who-leads thinks they’re funny too.
> 
> I almost titled this fic “it takes a village” because I feel like that’s a very Mandalorian philosophy but eh. I also almost named it Starman because I'm going through a Bowie phase, but eh. You see why I named it this instead. The title is a lyric from an Andrew Bird song. 
> 
> I also know I didn't address the helmet thing but listen, _listen_ , in this house we handwave shit like it's going out of style.
> 
> Please send love.


End file.
